The Children of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Found it.” Andvari’s exclamation rescued Tae from further embarrassment. They all trotted over to look at a jagged chip of sapphire scarcely larger than the first joint of Tae’s finger. It seemed amazing that a small, irregular fragment could represent so much. Yet, the future of all mankind rested upon this shard—and seven like it. He watched as the Northman handed the piece to Darris, who cradled it in his palm as if it might break.

  Ra-khir approached Tae. “All right. Now, what’s your idea?”

  Trapped, Tae shook his head and told the truth. “I’m still working on it.”

  A look of horror stole over Ra-khir’s face. “You mean I made a vow against a plan that doesn’t exist?”

  “I had one at the time. Problems arose.”

  “Tae, this isn’t funny.”

  “For me either.” Tae glanced at the others. Rascal seemed to have taken an interest in something in one of the stacks. “We’ll just have to pool everything we have and find or build something unique.”

  Skepticism burned clearly in the knight’s green eyes, but he did not challenge. No other course of action existed. He headed back to the others to relay the need while Tae sat pawing through his own pack. Clothing, toiletries, and foodstuffs spilled onto the ground, none remarkable on its own merits. The Collector had already made it clear he would not accept something simply because of belonging to, or becoming altered by, a certain individual made it singular. He doubted tying his clothing together in patterns and using it to carry other things or fashioning it into a different look or use would impress the giant. They might try resewing things to form one-legged pants for amputees or four-legged sweaters for cats, but Tae doubted even those would prove unique amid the Collector’s things. Three-legged tunic for amputee cats? Tae shrugged. Why not? He walked over to join the others, hoping they had come up with something less desperate.

  Ra-khir rose as Tae approached. “Any luck?”

  “Just silly things.”

  “You didn’t happen to bring any of those hand-made climbing tools with you . . . or anything . . . similar.” Ra-khir cautiously probed for objects Tae might have used during his days on the streets, indicating that he would not condemn.

  Tae shook his head. Even if he had brought his claws, it would not have mattered. He had seen similar ones amid the collection. Other than those, he used only his wits and practiced agility to obtain food and escape predators. “Nothing like that.”

  Darris reviewed their possessions aloud, “Clothes, bandages, food, waterskins, combs, brushes, weapons, mandolin, and herbs.” He flapped closed his pack. “Nothing I haven’t seen here.”

  Andvari confronted El-brinith. “Can you create something?”

  “Create?” El-brinith repeated.

  “From magic.”

  El-brinith’s gemlike eyes glittered in the sunlight. “Not all the elves together can do that. Ordering chaos with law is magic. Transforming chaos into law is just impossible.”

  Chan’rék’ril explained further, “Even the Cardinal Wizards together only managed to instill chaos into items of law a few times. That’s why those things are so valuable. It took all of them to magic the Pica Stone, but the four most powerful together could not make objects from chaos.”

  Tae recalled the creation stories. Odin himself had not manufactured creatures and places from disorder. Instead, he reportedly banished the primordial chaos to its plane and fashioned the world from law. “What about just summoning raw chaos?”

  Darris looked about to explode from the need to address the question, though he would have to sing to do so.

  Chan’rék’ril saved the bard. “All worlds have some free chaos; it’s leaked from its plane almost since the moment Odin banished it. The Collector could not contain it, but neither could we. And if we summoned it, unbound chaos would have to come in demon form.”

  “I’ll bet that’s something he doesn’t have,” Kevral said.

  Chan’rék’ril’s head swiveled to the Renshai, eyes wide enough to reveal surprise. “Even if the two of us could summon one, we would not have the strength to contain it.”

  “Without a jovinay arythanik, we do not have the power to call a demon,” El-brinith moved to stand directly beside her fellow elf. “Besides, we already know summoning would only bring Colbey.”

  “Certainly unique,” Kevral grumbled.

  Tae could not resist responding, “I don’t think the Collector could control him any more than raw chaos.”

  Kevral responded to a clearly rhetorical statement, tossing the diamond brooch, then catching it without needing to follow its course with her gaze. “Keeping him isn’t our problem, just delivering something unique.”

  Ra-khir cut through brainstorming that had gone far beyond worthy discussion. “Once El-brinith informed us she hadn’t the power, everything after became moot. No matter how unusual, a human only works as an item of barter if the Collector does not already have one.”

  Darris spoke softly and hesitantly, treading the lines of teaching. “He did say he doesn’t live on this world alone.”

  Tae turned his attention to Rascal once more, studying the set of her clothing for any sign that she had added items belonging to the Collector.

  “So we can’t surrender a human,” Kevral guessed. “What about an unborn child? I’ll bet he doesn’t have one of those.”

  “Kevral,” Ra-khir said gruffly.

  The cause of Kevral’s mood came out in an instant. “I’d rather leave it here in a jar of hard wine than turn it over to that bastard Cymion.”

  “Kevral.” Ra-khir’s warning became unmistakable. “That’s a king you’re talking about.”

  “Fine. That bastard King Cymion.”

  “Kevral!”

  Tae made the necessary interruption. “Anyone sew?”

  “A bit,” almost everyone mumbled.

  Believing El-brinith the most likely to prove capable, Tae turned to her. “I doubt the Collector has a three-legged tunic for crippled animals. Perhaps we could fashion one from our clothing.”

  “I could do that.” El-brinith smiled, probably more for the humans than as a natural expression.

  The faces around Tae registered everything from consideration to dense skepticism.

  “I suppose it’s worth a try,” Darris said.

  Rascal snorted. A hint of silver glinted from her palm so swiftly Tae would not have believed he saw it if not for his own anticipation and suspicion. He glided toward her.

  El-brinith set to work while the others milled and talked, still seeking other answers to a difficult problem. Rascal deliberately avoided Tae, so he discarded the direct approach, allowing normal movement to bring him occasionally into her vicinity.

  Light flared as El-brinith fashioned the last line of stitches, and the Collector stood again in front of them. Tae backpedaled, bringing himself even nearer to his target. If the Collector had come because of Rascal’s impropriety, she would need all the protection he could supply. And probably more.

  “So,” the giant said, blond bangs stirring to his breaths. “Did you find it?”

  “Yes,” Darris replied, without bothering to display the shard.

  “And my trade?”

  Kevral glanced from the Collector toward where they had first arrived on his world. “I thought you wouldn’t come until we went over there.” She pointed to the place they had originally gathered.

  The huge man shrugged. “You spent so much time here, I thought I’d see how you were getting along.”

  “Done,” El-brinith said. She displayed the tunic.

  The Collector looked only a moment, then laughed. Without another word, he strode across the plane, his long strides taking him to the edge of vision within a few steps. As Tae edged casually toward Rascal, the Collector returned, a sweater dangling from his grip. Dog hairs peppered the wool, and he opened it to reveal it had only three holes.

  El-brinith lowered the garment.

  The giant laughed again, the sou
nd rumbling across the plane like thunder. “Don’t bother with five legs, three for humans, or any other permutation. I have them all.” His stony gaze pinned Darris. “Now, my shard, please.”

  “Wait!” Tae said, thoughts racing.

  The giant rolled those hard eyes to the Easterner.

  “Where did you get that sweater?”

  “From Midgard.” The lids squeezed into a squint. “Why?”

  “You took it from a cold, three-legged dog?”

  “No.” The Collector crouched to Tae’s level. “The dog eventually died, and the owner threw the sweater away.”

  Damn. Tae tried another tack. He placed a hand on a dusty desk. “And this? Where did you get it?”

  “Midgard. I bought it. Why does any of this concern—?”

  Tae walked to where Kevral stood, tossing and catching the brooch. He snatched it from midair. “This?”

  “All right,” the giant snarled. “I took it from a king’s cache. What of it?”

  Tae examined the pin as if for the first time. “This belongs to you, right?”

  The Collector returned to his full height, deliberately towering. “Of course it’s mine.”

  “Of course,” Tae said. “You stole it, but it’s in your possession now.” He flicked his gaze upward. “Right?”

  “Give it to me,” the Collector demanded.

  Tae complied, tossing the jewelry to the Collector. Light struck the diamonds, flashing in a dozen directions before it disappeared into a beefy hand.

  “Because,” Tae continued, “just because you stole it doesn’t make it any less yours. Right?”

  The Collector considered a long time.

  “Because,” Tae pressed, not daring to look at Ra-khir to see if the knight disapproved of his methods. If he violated Ra-khir’s honor, it would invalidate everything he had done since the vow had been made by the knight. “If you don’t own it, or anything else that came to you through theft . . .” He left the understanding hang, boxing the Collector into the answer he wanted.

  The Collector’s hand tightened around the brooch. “Of course it’s mine.” He struggled for damage control. “And nothing currently in my possession will qualify as yours, even if you steal it, you obnoxious little thief.”

  Tae raised his hands as much as a gesture of peace as to prove them empty. “I’m no thief.” He glided back to Rascal, fanning a glimpse at a flawless pearl marbled with scarlet and an emerald-encrusted trinket in her pocket. “But I’d venture to guess you don’t own a red pearl.”

  “Of course I do!”

  “Of course you did.” Tae slipped the items from Rascal’s pocket, holding up the pearl to the light. “But by your own rules it ceased to be yours the moment she took it.”

  The Collector roared. “I said you couldn’t steal . . .”

  “You said,” Tae countered, “that nothing currently in your possession could be stolen. First, that was not a provision of your initial bargain. Second, it was taken before—”

  “Why you. . . !” The Collector lunged toward Tae.

  Swords rasped from sheaths, and Andvari’s ax rose. Tae skittered aside, and Ra-khir took over the negotiations. “We’ve met your conditions. If you violate your promise, you’ve left us the right to violence.”

  The Collector grasped his whip mace, mouth pursed into a white line and gaze tearing into each of the travelers in turn.

  While the others prepared for battle, Darris readied his mandolin. A sweet song of peace peeled from voice and strings, carrying Tae’s worry on a tender wave of sound. Darris sang of bargains kept, of desperate need, and of reveling in shrewdness, even when it works to one’s own detriment. Mellow harmonies enwrapped Tae, erasing rage and despair, begging understanding. When at last the music ended, he felt refreshed, cleansed of the darkness of his tactic and prepared for diplomacy, not war.

  The Collector’s attention swung from Kevral to Darris. “That song. It will stay with me always.” The corners of his mouth twitched grudgingly, almost into a smile. “Had you requested trading that, I would have been satisfied.”

  Tae winced, feeling as foolish as he had clever moments before. Why didn’t I think of that?

  The grimaces on Kevral’s and Darris’ faces suggested that they suffered equally from their own lapses in judgment.

  As the effects of the song disappeared, the Collector glared again at Rascal. “Everything she has taken must be returned.”

  “Of course.” Ra-khir would have it no other way. He gestured for Tae to see to Rascal.

  Moments later, the party was on its way back to Béarn.

  CHAPTER 11

  Plans Awry

  Details turn the tide of wars.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  WINTER cold seeped through the cracks of Béarn Castle, and Ra-khir snuggled deep within the heavy blankets, attuned to the quiet music of Kevral’s breaths. Worried for her comfort, he curled around her, contributing his warmth to hers. His right hand rested lightly against the dainty mound of her abdomen, his left pillowing her head. The fine gold tresses tickled his arm, and he reveled in the early morning stillness, her presence, the few days or weeks of peace before leaping to the next task. So far, they had managed to avoid battles; wits alone had bought the first two Pica shards. Darris’ wits, he corrected himself. And Tae’s. Although the knight wished he had played a greater role, he did not begrudge the two their successes. Darris had learned a lesson from an ancient ancestor that Ra-khir could never fully comprehend, and Tae needed anything to boost his confidence. In the heat of the moments following their return to Béarn, Ra-khir only hoped he had thanked his wary companion enough.

  A light, brisk movement snapped against Ra-khir’s palm. Kevral tensed, abruptly awake, though she remained in place, unspeaking.

  Again, Ra-khir felt a slight, sharp kick. Excitement, joy, and horror rushed down on him at once. In that moment, the baby turned from concept to extraordinarily complicated reality. My wife. My baby. Before he could suppress it, selfish need seized him, supported by Béarn’s law. My baby. The unborn drew him with the intensity that training to become a knight once did. He clutched Kevral tighter, possessively.

  The Renshai shuddered against him.

  Crying. Instantly, Ra-khir’s touch went gentle. He stroked her hair and her side, desperate to whisper reassurances he dared not offer. Powerless to protect either of them, he struggled against impotent anger that could only turn to depression. In return for Kevral’s freedom, they had promised the baby to Pudar. Breaking his oath could prove far worse than shattering his honor and his knighthood; it could spark a war. The baby would become the prince or princess of Pudar, the heir to a throne, a life anyone might envy. He or she would never know about their loss or, perhaps, even of their existence. Only he and Kevral would suffer, and the security of Béarn and of Pudar seemed worth that sacrifice.

  Logically.

  But, at the moment, with the one Ra-khir loved most in the world sobbing in his arms, his vow and his honor seemed distant concepts barely worthy of his attention. In the depths of his being, he knew he would never go against either; but he did not need to think about that now. For the moment, he made the silent consolation of his wife the sole focus of his universe.

  Gradually, Kevral calmed and again found sleep, helped along by the fatigue that always accompanied pregnancy. Once certain of her comfort, Ra-khir clambered from the bed, ignoring the chill. The dread that clutched his own heart refused to leave, and he could not sleep again until he felt the living warmth of his child in his arms. Quietly, he crept toward the crib where Saviar slept, glad that Tae had the solace of Subikahn tonight as well. Though those two surely rested without the burdens and dilemmas that wrested sleep from Ra-khir, they could still draw comfort from one another.

  Ra-khir hefted the baby, cradling him in his arms. The tiny lips smacked several times. The blue eyes fell sleepily open, met his gaze, then collapsed closed again. For longer than an hour, Ra-khir rocked his baby
son, allowing joy and innocence to wash away his troubles. In the morning, the problem would return to haunt him. But, for now, he found sleep.

  * * *

  As the rising sun finally funneled through Tae Kahn’s south- and west-facing windows, it found him stalking around his bed on hands and knees. Silently, he peeked around the end, confronted by a tiny face studying him from the opposite side. Subikahn’s lips bowed into a delighted grin, and he bounced excitedly, the movement jostling hair as black as his father’s own. Double time, he crawled to Tae, who ducked back beyond the edge too late. Wee fingers curled around his hand, and high-pitched, hissing laughter filled his ears with joy. Soon, he knew, giggles would turn to cries as hunger displaced even the thrill of play. Until Subikahn definitively needed his mother’s breast, Tae would wring out the last few moments of fun with his son.

  Eyes shining, smile turning to a grimace of determination, Subikahn tugged his way up Tae’s sleeve to his head. A handful of his father’s hair in each hand, Subikahn steadied himself to stand. Ignoring the pain, Tae clapped at his son’s achievement, and the baby let out a loud squeal of self-delight. Standing already. Proud of his child’s remarkably early development, Tae did not brood over the fact that he and Kevral had missed the first time. Larger, heavier Saviar had only just begun to manage sitting without assistance, and Matrinka had made it clear that babies develop at different rates—all normal. Tae only hoped that Subikahn’s early physical development boded well for his agility. Bombarded by languages: common trading, Western, Eastern, Renshai, Northern and even, occasionally, Béarnian, he seemed unlikely to ever learn to talk.

  A knock sounded on the door. Guessing a servant had come to collect Subikahn for his breakfast, Tae sighed. “Just a moment.” He unwound pudgy fingers from his hair and caught the baby into his arms. Hoping for as much playtime as possible, he still wore his nightshirt.

  Tae placed Subikahn on the floor, where the baby immediately pulled himself up using the coverlet, earning another round of applause. Quickly, Tae hauled britches and a tunic from his wardrobe. Doffing and donning in record time, he ignored his disheveled locks, worsened by Subikahn. As he hurried to the door, he remembered the minute wooden sword on the night stand. Thrusting the hilt into Subikahn’s waiting hand, Tae continued his walk to the door. It seemed unlikely a Renshai would have come for him at this hour, but Kevral might; and the baby’s training required that he keep hold of the weapon as much as possible. He could not fathom what the torke taught a six-month-old; but he had noticed that Subikahn tended to hit more often than he believed one so young should.